Fel Rising
by Andy4532
Summary: Makrim Prisonhoof was once Makrim Rainwalker, a night elf Highborne during the times of the first invasion of the Burning Legion. Now a satyr, he searches for a way to return to being a night elf, but all of Azeroth is set on killing him...


Chapter One: The Attack

The usual festive mood of the Thunderbrew Distillery was dampened by a gloomy mood, though no one could really put a finger on the source. There were the regulars, mostly patrols that were taking a break from the frost, but no one other than them, save one stranger.

The lone stranger sat at the bar, sipping at a drink he did not catch the name of. He did not care. He wasn't really drinking at all. He sat there, contemplating.

A dwarf annoying sat down next to him. "We don't get too many humans 'round here, stranger," he said amiably, though the man could hear a trace of suspicion. "Too cold for ye, I heard." A friendly round of chuckles ran around the dwarves and gnomes in range of hearing. "Could I ask what yer doin' here?" The stranger noticed that the dwarf had his hand on his belt, straying close to a hidden weapon, no doubt.

The stranger cleared his throat. "No problem at all, master dwarf. I'm here because I'm a knowledge seeker. I came all the way up here to talk with gnomes about their inventions, but they seemed a tad... eccentric to me. A little bit too much, if you catch my drift. I'm not sure if it was such a good idea after all." A more open laughter went around the tavern. The stranger smiled a fake smile. He was glad his hood covered his green eyes, which would have shown that he was not actually amused.

The dwarf roared with laughter. "Ha! I know what ye mean, stranger. Them gnomes can be a little crazy." He extended a heavily calloused hand. "Bornun Stonefist, at yer service. Sorry if I sounded a bit suspicious. 'S I said, don't get too many humans around this part."

The stranger let out a small laugh. "No offence taken, friend." He took the dwarf's hand, hoping that he did not have any magical affinity. "Makrim Perenolde, explorer and knowledge seeker. As I have mentioned." He had had enough of pleasantries with an annoying dwarf. "I'm sorry if you take offence, but I must be going. As warm as this tavern is, I know that as soon as I go outside I'm going to regret coming here, so I'm just going to go back to the Deeprun Tram as fast as I can." That earned another laugh, and the Stonefist nodded.

The stranger made his way around to the back of the distillery, where no one could see him. He grunted. He did not feel the cold. His spells kept him at a constant temperature.

When he raised his hood, his eyes glowed an unnatural green. Muttering under his breath, he cast a spell. It transported him immediately to his home, a hidden cave in the side of a mountain somewhere in Southern Kalimdor. Even he had forgotten its exact location.

Makrim Prisonhoof was not the average satyr. He had more control over his spells. He took great pride in his transformation spells, but he could not change the demonic green eyes no matter what form he took. He guessed it was due to his being a fel creature.

With a few other mutterings his form wavered, and he assumed the form that felt comfortable to him. After ten thousand years, the strange hooves and over-sized horns felt so natural.

"You have returned, master!" a giddy voice flowed from the depth of his cave. Razorgrin the imp skipped out, his face and most of his body covered in red blood. "You have missed a great battle! A centaur wandered in here, and I have slaughtered it. I know you do not like eating sentient things, so I took the liberty of eating the whole thing!" Indeed, his belly looked bulging. The little imp looked very proud of his achievement.

While disappointed, Makrim was in no mood to lecture his familiar tonight. "Good job, Razorgrin. Now find me something to eat." The little imp cackled madly, and rushed out of the cave. He would likely return with a rabbit or something small. The satyr did not care. He was not very hungry.

Makrim sat down and opened a book he had swiped from the priest in the distillery. He had only a quick glance at the spine, which read, "Church of the Holy Light", but in ancient dwarven. He had hoped it was different from the common version written by humans.

Though his dwarven was rusty, he read at a fast pace.

He grunted. Some more babble about respect, tenacity, and compassion.

Same as the human version.

Disgusted, Makrim threw the book into the fire.

He did not lie completely to the dwarf in the distillery, whose name he had already forgotten. He was a knowledge seeker. He was seeking holy knowledge.

The satyr was annoyed by how many different versions of the Light there were. Some worshipped gods, some worshipped a single entity, but most followed a simple philosophy. They all talked about redemption and righteousness, yet none of them mentioned a word about fel energies, other than the fact that demons were abominations and the like.

That a satyr, who had willingly turned into a demon ten thousand years ago when he was barely older than a child, regretted his actions when he reached maturity, who simply wanted a way of redemption, was to be put down like some rabid animal.

He had already tried other methods. Nature did not respond to his calls, unless he used corrupted magic and forced their will. The elements could have been non-sentient for all they cared about his plight.

All of this would have been unnecessary if not for his random urges to commit heinous acts. He just wanted to live a normal life.

He wanted to be a part of society again.

And it enraged him that he was not allowed to, as if by some higher power.

A noise distracted him, and he turned to the entrance of the cave. As he expected, his faithful companion had returned with a rabbit, but in his eyes was panic. Razorgrin, the most powerful imp Makrim had ever known, was afraid of something.

It would have to be a great deal more than a simply terrifying wild creature.

"What is it?" Makrim snapped.

"Invaders!" Razorgrin cried. "I found a field of dead centaurs! I went to see, and was ambushed by cow people! They followed me to these mountains, but I lost them! Is only a matter of time before they come here!"

Makrim cursed, but not at Razorgrin. The little imp was not an idiot, but he was very single minded and easily distracted, as was the nature of all imps. He cursed at himself for choosing a home that he knew was close to some civilization. He just felt that the peaceful tauren would leave him alone.

Apparently, not all of them were peaceful. War with the centaurs? When did that start? As far as he could tell, the satyr concluded that it was small disputes between two territorial races, not an all-out war.

No matter. That was not the problem at hand.

"How many?" he asked.

"I saw three, but there are likely more."

"Did they get a clear look at you?"

Razorgrin paused, thinking. "I don't know. No. Wait, yes! One of them did. Their eyes, they face forward, but kind of sideways too. One of them definitely saw me."

Damn. The tauren would not simply try to seek the imp out then. They knew that he was a demon, and that meant they would assume there were more. They were likely to call for reinforcements.

"Gather your things, Razorgrin. We leave now."

"No, you don't," a gruff voice growled. "You are not going anywhere, demon." Makrim found himself being impressed at how quietly an eight-foot tall hoofed creature could move. He blinked to clear his thoughts.

"I am not what you think," Markim said in a calm voice. It seemed to surprise the tauren. It was likely that he thought that all satyrs started with lines that was along the lines of 'glory to the Burning Legion'. "I have not caused any crimes, and I have not harmed any that did not mean to harm me first. By any of your laws, I am innocent."

The tauren laughed. "An innocent demon. My ancestors laugh at your ridiculousness, twisted thing. Though you seem to be more intelligent than other satyrs, you are no doubt too dangerous to leave around. Your pet had blood all over it. No doubt from killing innocent passerby."

Makrim sighed. "He is holding a dead rabbit. Rabbits tend to bleed."

"Too much blood for a little creature."

"The rest is from a centaur. I heard you don't like centaurs."

"Why are we chatting with a demon, Bovok?" another tauren cut in. This one was a hair smaller, but was no less bulky. The axe in his hand was covered in blood, no doubt that of centaurs. "Let's just kill the damn thing."

"Master Makrim, my things are packed," Razorgrin whispered.

Makrim nodded. "Grab my sword and clothes too."

"Yes, master." The imp moved to do his bidding.

The satyr faced the taurens. "Why can't we talk like civilized folk? I have heard that taurens like to talk more than fight. If nothing else, we have that in common. I am simply a student of the world, and I have zero interest in the plans of the Burning Legion or the Illidari or any other demon factions anywhere. Let me live in peace." He knew full well they would not. He just hoped his imp would hurry.

The one called Bovok looked thoughtful. "You talk like the night elf you once were. But you betrayed the world when you decided to turn into a satyr all those years ago. Prepare yourself." He raised his spear.

The imp was still not ready, and Makrim prepared a spell. "A decision I made on a whim as a child because I was threatened by demons over ten thousand years ago has damned me for life? You people make me sick with your judgemental stupidity. The fact that I have tried for the past eight thousand years to redeem myself, no doubt means nothing to you. The fact that I have saved countless mortal lives from other demons means nothing to you. That I have even convinced other fel creatures to seek redemption means nothing to you. You simply kill because your mind is set on this insane idea that everything in the world is black and white." He was ranting, but he saw the taurens hesitate. His imp, he realized, was beside him now. "I did not expect my criticism to move you. All of you people are the same. If you had been convinced even a little by this, you would have still killed me even if a little more reluctantly. But all I really needed was time. I bid you self-righteous bastards a good night." He cast his spell, and the world flashed before his eyes.

He was in a thick forest, with his imp and all their things beside him.

And the tauren named Bovok was still in front of him, with two tauren behind him.

"Sword, Razorgrin, now!" The imp tossed his master the sword, which he drew in a smooth motion. Makrim assumed a guard position, while his imp summoned fel fire and readied it in his hands. The imp stared at the tauren with hatred.

"Your speech did move me, satyr," Bovok unexpectedly said. "But you were also right in that it does not change the fact that we must rid this world of demons regardless of your plight. I apologize for what we are about to do in advance." He started towards Makrim with his fellows.

They died instantly in a huge burst of green fire.

Makrim looked down at Razorgrin with surprise, but the imp shrugged.

"Your imp didn't do this, brother," a throaty, mischievous voice said from behind a tree. "We did." A dozen satyrs stepped out from the shadow of the trees. No doubt, Makrim could feel the fel magic still lingering on them. The one that spoke seemed to be the leader, as he was the only one with more than a loin-cloth on.

"Nice to meet a fellow Highborne out here. Never seen you around." He gestured to his followers, who gave a mocking bow. "We are the humble servants of the Nathrezim Junizzar, who left us with the instructions to wreak havoc on this world's inhabitants. We are the Chaoshoof tribe, and I, the lord of the Chaoshoof, Juxtopax Chaoshoof, welcome you to our abode." He presented his clawed hand at the confused renegade satyr.

Makrim gulped. He could not see an easy way out of this. He shook Juxtopax's hand.

"Makrim Prisonhoof, at your service, Lord Juxtopax."

"Oh please. Only my followers call me Lord Juxtopax. You are a guest. Call me Juxtopax."


End file.
